June, Reimagined

by Rebekah Crane

“Just because they’re beat up doesn’t mean you can treat them poorly. How would you feel if someone tossed you aside because of a few torn pages or a broken spine?”

“I can give you a fancy camera,” Ms. Flores once said to June. “But no matter how good the equipment, it still only takes pictures. It can’t see. Only you can do that. That’s the job of an artist.”

It felt unfair that no matter how big the life, we all reduce to the same small pile of ash.

“I hate those two words.” I’m sorry about your loss. I’m sorry you’re going through this. I’m sorry this happened. I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry . . . “I’m sorry” was never on time. It was always too late.

“I have no fucking control in a used bookstore.”

“Turns out, saying no sucks,” she said to Eva. “That’s why so many people won’t say it. They’d rather spare themselves the pain than walk through it to something better.”

“Don’t be naive. We’re all characters, June. If something’s not working, it’s time to reimagine yourself. Now close your bloody eyes.” June did as instructed. “Pretend your brain is a room. Something is hiding in there, and you need to find it.”

June opened her eyes. “I don’t even know what to look for.” “That’s the point,” Eva said. “If you knew what you were looking for, we wouldn’t be doing this. Sometimes, we get so stuck in who we think we are, we forget to take in our lives from another view. You aren’t a reflection, June, like a flat mirror. You are a three-dimensional person. You’ve just gotten used to seeing only one side of yourself.”

“You called me an artist, Eva. No one has ever said that before.” “Welcome to the club,” Eva said with a knowing smile. “The pay is shit, you’ll have to work until you die, you’ll battle self-doubt like a bad case of acne, but you’ll be happy . . . most days.”